


Half A Heart

by azzpizza (cheesemoi)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cherry Wine, Flashback, French Revolution, Grantaire Lives, Hozier References, Inspired by a Hozier Song, M/M, School, Secret Relationship, Wine, exr - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-11 07:14:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17442353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheesemoi/pseuds/azzpizza
Summary: Years after Les Amis de l'ABC and the fall of the barricade, Marius finds Grantaire survived the fate of café musain. Haunted by old ghosts, Grantaire remembers his life in Paris and the boy he used to love





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheWeaverofWorlds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWeaverofWorlds/gifts).



> To T.W.oW, who has every right to kill me in my sleep, and whose undying patience with me means more than words can say. Cheers.

The bottle of wine needed no glass. The french label had blurred to gibberish hours ago. Grantaire’s head swam in the chaotic directions of his curls as he dropped it down onto the table. His heart felt sicker than his stomach as he battled age old demons for neither the first nor last time. His veins had been swollen with wine since the pub first opened, and he’d hardly staggered a step since then, caught in a limbo of fluctuating intoxication for hours on end. He still continued to hope that the poison of the alcohol would target more specific memories than the general proceedings of each night. It hadn’t happened yet, but there was nothing else he could try. 

Of all the tables in the pub, he sat alone by the wall away from the hearth. Foreign accents rang all around him in a way that was familiar now, and he tuned in to various tables’ conversations without hearing a word of it. He swigged from the bottle as if it might provide him with vocabulary he didn’t have. Another moment passed with none such luck. Disheartened, he swigged again. 

A new customer slid through the door narrowly as to not let any cold air in. No one turned their heads, but their eyes flickered up like the scales of sunlight on water, catching a glance, then looking away again. The conversations and gossip that carried about each table ceased for a moment, in case the topic of their discussion had just strode in. A bitter London wind swept across the dark wood floors and kicked dirt, old tobacco, and scraps of paper up into swirling devils that crossed between the legs of chairs. The new customer entered with an air that bordered on aristocratic but fell homely short. He stopped just a few steps in, so the door closed again and the chatter rose to its usual level.

Instead of crossing to a table or hearth and ordering himself a drink, this man simply stood in front of the entrance. Grantaire was familiar enough to know the workings of the pubs and their patrons. This one must be new. He tried to resume his work on his current bottle of wine. The boy would find a place to sit if he looked hard enough, he thought, and he wouldn’t be bothered to preoccupy himself with that. Like everyone else, there was no need to watch. He took a drink from his bottle and his eyes surveyed the stranger quickly as he tipped his head back. 

He was handsome in a way that Grantaire hadn’t seen since he left France and it pulled at his heart that this young man looked like home. He was tall and rather lanky, with dark a hair and fair skin. His eyes were the same color blue as his cravat and wide like he’d seen a ghost, prying at Grantaire like he could see right through him. He raised his hand to cover his mouth, and before he dropped it to his side again, an aristocrat’s ring and a wedding ring flashed in the dim light from the hearth. “Grantaire,” he mouthed from across the room. “I can’t believe it.” 

He couldn’t place the name through his wine-soaked brain until Marius came closer to the table and took Grantaire’s hand in cordial reintroduction. Grantaire slid his feet off the chair across from him and gestured for him to sit. “Hello, old friend,” he slurred warmly. “It’s been too long.” 

“I can’t believe it,” Marius repeated as if it could abate his shock. “Wh–how– I thought you were dead! Well, it’s been years! How the hell are you–?” 

“Would you like a glass?” Grantaire digressed, “I hope you don’t mind I’ve put my mouth on it, but we are still friends, aren’t we?”

“Of course, of course,” Marius said rushedly. “In truth, I don’t drink much since the children came along, but–”

“Children?” Grantaire repeated. “So you did find that ghost you told us about?” 

“Cosette, yes.” Marius answered with a tinge of chagrin. “We have two. Ponine and Jean.” 

“Very sweet. Congratulations, Marius, I’m glad things looked up for you after the war.” 

“What about you?” He implored, interrupting with eager incredulity. “After all this time–what’s brought you to London?”

Grantaire shrugged curtly and glanced off to the side, as if the answer was tucked away somewhere in the dark corners of the room. “There was nothing left for me in France,” he smiled something faded, a nostalgic twinkle permeated his dull, distant eyes. “I don’t have a title or wife like yours. All I had was the revolution. And that’s gone, now.” He gave a shallow laugh and covered his face with one hand. “I’m not even a hero, Baron Pontmercy, I’m just a drunk.”

“Come on, Grantaire,” Marius began gently. “I felt guilty, too. But it’s been years since the barricade. I thought I was all that was left of Les Amis until just now.” He put his hand out on the table to catch Grantaire’s attention, and tapped his fingers silently to emphasize his words. “There’s no use in living in the past, believe me. You are more than just an ex-revolutionary.”

“I was,” he stated coldly. “I used to be a revolutionary, a scholar, a frenchman,”  _ and his,  _ he added in his mind. The space left an eerie gap in his speech before he shook his head. “Now I’m nothing. I’m an  _ ex- _ everything. A drunk, or I’m nothing.” 

“But you don’t have to be,” Marius pressed. 

“No,” Grantaire agreed solemnly. “But I can’t start over until I forget.” 

The end was the sorriest part, only he couldn't think of that, yet. First came the sunlit Parisian days, the old school they used to go to, and the ideas that that beautiful boy put into his head. The wine pried nails from the coffins he’d packed the old days in, and pulled repressed memories from their cobwebbed corners. They resurfaced more quickly than he could bury them, until there was no use resisting anymore. Everything he drank to forget came spiraling back in an instant. 


	2. Chapter 2

There was stoic boy with smart bright eyes and big ideas and golden curled hair, who answered too many questions in class. Grantaire had spent the better part of this class period throwing wadded up paper at the back of his head except he always seemed to hit the wrong person. A misshapen fold in the paper here and a draft from the window there sent the ball far off target, and more than once into L'aigle’s bald spot. Grantaire tried to shield his face with his hand each time his classmate turned around, which only convicted him further. He peeked through fanned fingers to see L’aigle’s glare and that he merited no attention whatsoever from the curly blond he was aiming for. The schoolroom was littered with failed attempts until he forced himself to conserve the few leaves of paper he had left. 

L’aigle confronted Grantaire after class, with each balled up page in his fist. “What’s with you?” he demanded as the flow of students swept past them. Some tracked loose leaf on the bottoms of their shoes. “I don’t suppose you like getting in trouble, do you?” 

“Well, yes I do, but I’m dreadfully sorry,” Grantaire said absently as he scanned the crowd, “I wasn’t trying to get in trouble with  _ you _ .”

“Everyone saw you,” L’aigle accused. “Who were you trying to get into trouble with? You disrupted the entire lesson!” 

“I was trying for the only one who  _ didn’t _ notice.” He said, exasperatedly and ambiguously. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to try now after class.” 

“Think to begin with that next time, would you?” L’aigle crammed the papers back into Grantaire’s hand. “In case you’re using the same method.” 

Grantaire stuffed the papers in his pockets as an indignant and embarrassed blush burned the cuffs of his ears. He leaned his shoulder into the wall and sighed so his cheeks puffed out. He hardly knew his classmates’ names. There goes the bald one, he counted as L’aigle walked down the hall. There’s the hypochondriac, and there’s the rich boy… 

Last to leave the classroom, as always, was the beautiful boy. After all the shuffling and smalltalk had ebbed from the halls, Grantaire heard Enjolras’s voice energetically carry from the lecture hall. Clarifying questions, finalising a debate, he would hold the professor up for as long as he could without being late to his next class. This being the last class of the day, Grantaire listened for any hints of the conversation’s end and kept one eye on the clock, planning what he should say. 

All his thoughts were only half formulated when Enjolras stepped out of the classroom. Grantaire immediately straightened his posture and tousled his dark curls nervously. 

“Yes, thank you,” the voice drew nearer and a halo of blond shone in the doorway. One hand on the doorknob, his delicate, cut profile edged into the frame. He smiled courteously, “yes, see you tomorrow.” 

Grantaire forced himself to act naturally as Enjolras closed the door to the room and began to walk down the hallway. He walked briskly at a distance until he fell in step alongside him. 

“Hey,” he said, nervously smoothing the paper in his hands. Enjolras gave him a blasé side eye. “Some lesson today, huh?” 

“If by that you mean the professor is biased,” he laughed. “I mean what scholar thinks that Choderlos de Laclos–”

“I completely agree,” he interjected with a self-deprecatory laugh. “Grantaire, by the way. We haven’t formally met. You’re–”

“Enjolras,” they said in unison. 

“I know,” Grantaire added. “Professeur calls on you often. You really seem to have a handle on your academics. I can’t quite say the same.” 

Enjolras looked back at the classroom they had just walked out of. “It’s a literature class,” he stated. “There’s no right answers, there’s only what you think of it and how well you can defend it.” 

“Thinking,” Grantaire scoffed. “I’ve never thought a day in my life.” 

“No?” he probed. 

Grantaire took an animated moment to contradict himself. “Well I’ll tell you what I  _ do _ think,” he concluded, “I think you’re smart, and I think I could use some help. If you don’t mind, you did seem like the best person to ask.” 

“Certainly,” Enjolras smiled so the pert corners of his mouth dimpled. “I’m busy through the afternoon, but sometime in the evening?” 

“Sure, yes,” Grantaire agreed as tore a piece from the previously crumpled piece of paper. He took the pencil he had tucked behind his ear and wrote a few lines quickly down upon it. “My address,” he said as he handed it to him. “You can come by when you’re available.” 

From the time they went their ways from the schoolyard, Grantaire writhed with a burning anxiety that kept him restlessly moving around the house, and sported a blush that felt like it glowed brighter with each arrhythmic palpitation of his heart. He sat by the window and stared out it a while as the sun crawled between the cracks of the skyline. He drummed his fingers across his lip and huffed sighs like he wasn’t able to take a deep enough breath in. There was a way to quell his nervousness, he thought, glancing over to the kitchen. One glass hardly did anyone harm. 

He poured himself a drink and downed half of it quickly, so a normal portion of wine remained. The deep red that clung to the side of the glass slowly rejoined the rest at the midway point between the lip and the stem. The drink sank into him like a weary traveller who finally found a place to rest, and snuffed out the lights of anxiety as it settled in. Grantaire managed a deeper breath of relief and sobered himself with drink. One glass became three and the wine buzz filled his head like a daydream. 

Then a knock at the door pounded so powerfully and so suddenly that Grantaire jumped, knocking the bottle over. Nothing spilled out. He reset it upright for the illusion of neatness and opened the door with lax suavité. 

“I was beginning to believe you’d never show,” he lied, his cool façade aided by intoxication. “Please, come in.” 

“Bit of a holdup this time of night,” Enjolras brushed off casually, then added with one raised eyebrow, “but you never did give me a specific time.” 

“Ah, life’s too short to be so…” he looked up to the ceiling dreamily and searched for the word. 

“Organized?” he offered. They made their way to the couches by the hearth and each took a seat. “I think if you tried it you might see there’s something to it. And that way you’re not giving notes to classmates on crumpled pocket garbage.” 

“Now, you say that like it’s a bad thing.” 

He wore a plain look on his perfect features. “Pocket garbage,” he enunciated. 

“Trash and treasure,” Grantaire returned with a flippant wave of his hand. “If it was garbage, you wouldn’t be here.” 

“I’m here because it was garbage. You said you needed my help.” Enjolras cocked an eyebrow as Grantaire took his words in, waiting an ample moment before he concluded. “It shows.” 

“Well this hardly relates to our classwork at all,” Grantaire observed with a tone of mock haughtiness in his voice. “Educate me, monsieur parfait, if I’m so uncultured.”

“Alright,” Enjolras eyed him coyly. “The book for class. What do you think  _ Liaisons Dangereuses _ is about?” 

“The nature of love,” he answered with a mysterious air, moving closer so the hushed elusive tone carried delicately. “And other forbidden things.” 

“Social restriction,” he corrected. 

Grantaire scanned the room without moving his head, “Restricted love,” he amended slowly. “Its nature, and its social implications.” 

“Restricted love?” Enjolras scoffed. “Everyone ends up together.”

“Right before they fall from grace, yes. But some things,” he hummed, “are worth  _ everything _ .”

“Giving everything up is only useful when it’s for a higher cause, not for petty, selfish romances.” A competitive tone rose in his voice with his rebuttal. “Bigger things need to change than the loneliness of the individual.” 

“You sound like you have something specific in mind.” 

“I do,” he challenged, then his energy swayed and he held his tongue. “Only now’s not the time for it. We were talking about the restrictions of society almost one hundred years ago.” 

“Hm,” he disagreed. “We were talking about love.”

Enjolras laughed like a glass being set on a table. “You must be confused.” 

“I can accept that. Guilty as charged.” Grantaire adjusted his position on the couch and gained another inch towards Enjolras. “But we were talking about love, weren’t we?” 

“The only love that’s beneficial is the love of community,” Enjolras pressed, a heartfelt light swelled in his eyes as a bounty of ideas turned slowly like the gears behind a clock face. “Individual love is an illusion of happiness while a love of the people could a saving grace for more than one person.” 

“Or two,” Grantaire noted with a drunken grin. “Society is a cruel mistress, Enjolras. Surely there must be some lucky girl out there who you’d give anything for?”

“No,” he replied firmly and met Grantaire’s look coolly. 

Grantaire tipped his chin down and lifted his brow, silently asking  _ lucky boy, then? _

“Are you drunk?” He asked defensively, shifting his weight. A prying look set deep behind his eyes. He laughed with anxious incredulity. “You must be out of your mind.” 

Grantaire gave a hum. “I won’t claim to be a romantic,” he started in a low, drowsy tone. “Between you and me, I’ve always had this feeling that I would die alone but only today I got the strangest idea as to why. You see there’s this beloved that I’ve admired for such a long time that I thought I’d break my neck trying to get his attention. Now that I have it,” he paused for a long time and looked into Enjolras’s glittering blue eyes. They widened just slightly as Enjolras realised the attention he was paying to hear the rest of the sentence. Grantaire smiled with a hopeful tinge and a doubtful grimace colliding in his expression. “Now that he knows, either he feels the same and I die of pure joy. Or he doesn’t, and that’s it.” 

Enjolras swallowed dryly as he took the words in. A softness touched his expression. A boyish nervousness settled about him in the subtle twinges of his mouth and the creases in his brow. “You are drunk,” he concluded, glancing to Grantaire’s lips and pursing his own. “You smell like wine.” 

“I have another bottle in the kitchen,” he offered. “Unless you only want a taste.” 

Enjolras leaned forward and pressed his lips sweetly to Grantaire’s in a kiss so gentle and novel that it passed like a slow blink between them. He pulled away timidly, as if he was scared to want any more. Their noses still touched as Enjolras cast his eyes to the floor. “We must keep this a secret,” he whispered, looking to Grantaire whose eyes remained closed. He touched his tongue to his lower lip to taste the kiss again without advancing. “I’m sure you know that.”  

“I know,” Grantaire concurred, the heady buzzing in his brain spread all over his body. It was like getting drunk twice on an entirely new drink. He let out a chuckle in spite of himself. “But my first love just kissed me. That’s something I wish I could scream from the rooftops.”

Enjolras smiled and put his hand to Grantaire’s cheek. “Don’t.” 

“I’ll do it,” Grantaire teased. “Oh, if only there was some way to stop me.” 

Enjolras kissed him again on an inhale. Each of their lips slightly parted with acceptance and indulgence as they pressed against each other. The silence was punctuated by the aching detachment of lip from lip as one kiss lead to another and the chain of them grew steadily with tender sighs. Grantaire’s joy was almost too much to bear. Enjolras brought full moons to starry nights and all the world shone brighter. He was the sun that would rise again on his world remade, where bygone misery was for history books, and he could be drunk on love instead of wine. 


	3. Chapter 3

They met in secret for the next few weeks, moonlight kisses exchanged quietly behind drawn curtains. A timidity still hung about the shy beginnings of flirtationship. A relief of openness existed in unspoken ways-- a glance, a smirk, the smallest gesture of interest portrayed in the subtlest manners. The rush of taboo and the warmth of requited love mixing together like absinthe and wine. 

They visited a few times per week, usually at Grantaire’s. The golden light of the city sun winking between rooftops and the residual blush painting the sky in broad rosé strokes. Logical, philosophical, and drunken patterings lasted long into the night until the sentinel stars spun slowly over the city lights and the silver moon waned beyond the skyline. 

They sat on the couch, hands gently folded together between them, occasionally splitting to convey inspired or enthusiastic gesticulations of thought. Plato. The Republic. The Symposium. God and religion. Power and Justice. After a while, even Grantaire's drunken ramblings couldn’t dredge any material from the topics that had gone dry. Enjolras answered dismissively and a handsome crease came to his porcelain brow. Grantaire probed a few times at the things he knew inspired Enjolras the most and was met with the same simple words and the same troubled look.  

“You seem preoccupied,” Grantaire noticed. 

“Do you ever wonder what  _ could _ be?” He said abstractly. 

Grantaire caressed the back of his hand with his thumb. “Darling, I wondered that for months until you kissed me,” 

“I mean in the world,” he muttered distractedly. “There’s so much promise in it and yet there’s so much wrong with it. There must be some way to remedy the ills of the earth. Society is a beast with foul habits and its becoming evident that those habits won’t change. What’s the best way to kill something?” 

“Mighty lot of work to kill a killing thing.”

“Take its head off,” Enjolras answered himself like it was a new revelation. “Imagine!” 

“The world’s not worth fighting for,” Grantaire murmured. “You just find the little things that keep morale up and stick with them. First, all I had was inebriation. Now I have you, too. You don’t need to save me and I don’t need to save you. To the devil with everything else.” 

“My ‘little thing,’ Grantaire, is a sense of purpose. Don’t you want to make a difference in the world? I think it’s possible.” 

“I’m sure it’s  _ possible _ but at what cost?” 

He waved his hand in blasé dismissal. “The life of the king, but that’s a minor inconvenience. Think of all the chain reactions that will occur when the greedy and the parasitic sycophants are out of power. Not anarchy,  _ equality _ .”An indubitable and fierce light glinted in his eyes, having spoken with a passion so profound. “Combeferre and I have found this group. We brought the meetings from the Corinthe to the Café Musain so it can be accessible to students. You should join us sometime, but you must keep it a secret. If they find out we’re all working together it could spell disaster. If we play our cards right, utopia is as simple as  _ ABC _ .” 

“Secrets, secrets,” Grantaire iterated with a smirk. “Alright, I’ll go.” 

One meeting became two, two became three, until the his presence regulated. Every man knew his name and he knew theirs. Grantaire considered himself only an attendee, but a secret leader existed within the secret society, and that leader was Enjolras. Grantaire persuaded himself to quell his surprise at the first few meetings. Of course it was Enjolras, it could only ever be Enjolras. Over time, the novelty faded and admiration overtook him. Each time Enjolras invited him along to the Café Musain to plan his perfect world, his talks were riveting, his ideas inspired and informed, his vision perfect. Enjolras spoke articulately and austerely. His youthful face and vibrant eyes lit with scholarly and warlike passion on his marble features. Over the meetings, new recruits joined, few dropped. 

The proposition of revolution grew from buds, blossoming slowly. It was the second new and exciting thing in Grantaire’s life that he felt gave a purpose. On this night, he sat with a bottle of wine before him. What no one, especially Enjolras, had to know was that it was his third of the night. He had had one when he got out of class for the day. When the buzz of that had settled to melancholy, he had another to lift his spirits.  Sitting in the café now, he skimmed ounces off the top of the next bottle. He looked to his beautiful boy and all the room seemed blurry except him. 

“We’re getting to the point that our numbers are not enough,” Enjolras addressed Les Amis. “We’re getting to the point where we have to rally the people to join our side. To open their eyes. We will not be the only barricade to resist if we recruit just a few more men. Combeferre, you said you’d go to Picpus…” he went over the list of names and locations methodically. Grantaire waited to hear his name called out from the mouth of the man in charge. Joly, Jean, Courfeyrac. Combeferre, Bossuet, Feuilly. Each rolled off with intelligent and deliberate ease. There must be a machine in his head that keeps everything so perfectly organised. Perfect, Grantaire thought, the perfect thoughts of a perfect boy who he was perfectly smitten with. No one else could better suit the word. “And I’ll do the Cougourde.” he concluded.

“And that’s the lot.” Courfeyrac contributed. 

“Each of you is assigned to as arrondissement, except for the Barrière du Maine. I would have sent Marius, except that he’s fallen in love and doesn’t attend anymore.”  

“I’ll take it,” Grantiare chimed, sitting straighter in his chair. “I don't have an assignment.” 

“ _ Arrondissement. _ ” he corrected disdainfully. “You?” 

Les Amis all exchanged looks. Silent questions floated around the room with each arch of eyebrow and each open palm gently shrugged.  _ The drunkard wants an assignment? Who’s he trying to impress? Enjolras neglecting the spread of ideas? What about the lynchpin arrondissement?  _

Hurt flickered in Grantaire’s face. Only one who had studied it could see it. “Why not?” 

“Please, Grantaire you’re drunk. You couldn’t possibly indoctrinate the people with principles that you yourself don’t fully believe.” 

Grantaire scoffed indignantly. “Of course I believe.” 

_ “What _ you do you believe?” he returned, no expression fluctuating on his face.  

“I believe in you,” he replied coolly, and took another swig from the bottle. 

Enjolras waited for an exasperated moment to settle. “Grantaire, do you really want to do something for me?”

An eager light came to his face and he set one hand on the table before him. “Anything you like.” 

“Sleep off your drink.” Enjolras said slowly. “You’re not in this if you’re not sober.”

“How ungrateful of you, Enjolras.”

The leader turned away, addressing the whole again. He cleared his throat with an awkward sputter and announced. “Everyone knows their placements. We’ll convene here tomorrow with reports.” 

Les Amis de l’ABC seemed to rise in unison but Grantaire was the first one out the door. Some hung around and chatted around the tables by the window. Others paused in the street before bidding good night. Enjolras would be the last one out, like with class and their rendezvous. 

“Good night, Grantaire,” Laigle said as he passed, stirring Grantaire from his thoughts. His bare head shone in the orange lamplight. 

“Good night,” he returned absently. “See you tomorrow with your report.” 

Laigle dipped his head at the final word and set off into the night. A pit of guilt sank within Grantaire. He took a breath as if it could dispel the contempt that wavered within him. Enjolras knew his mind better than anyone, and still he deemed the other students more qualified and capable to set his ideals in motion. It stung to be underestimated and to be humiliated in front of all his peers. The recent memory burned cold like salted ice. 

When Enjolras stepped out of the door to the Café Musain, the memory felt as real as if it was happening again. His gut churned afresh and disappointment washed his features to an echo of his looks. Enjolras matched it with a glance as he sauntered up to him like a ill-behaved dog. 

A moment of charged silence hung between them. Enjolras gave a guilty sigh, then the silence persisted further, filled with the quiet and distant idiosyncratic sounds of the city. Grantaire was the first to speak. “I’ve never seen you act so cold.” 

Enjolras nodded slowly. “I know,” he sighed through his teeth. “I know, but appearances must be maintained. You understand.” 

“Of course I understand,” Grantaire pressed, “It’s just I thought I was more than the useless ignoramus the students take me for. I thought I meant something to you.” 

“You do--” 

“Just not as much as the cause?” 

“Grantaire, the cause is now,” Enjolras said feelingly. “You’re always. And I am terrified,” he swallowed dryly. “I am terrified that if I give any special treatment then we’ll be found out. A responsibility like the Barrière du Maine? You--” he searched for the words carefully with a cold pensivity on his face. “You have a reputation, Grantaire, and so do I. If they know that I know that you’re every wonderful thing that you are, the cause will be destroyed, and we will be destroyed, and there will be nothing left. I’m sorry that I treated you the way I did, but appearances must be maintained.” 

Grantaire’s lips pressed thin for a moment, and looked to Enjolras with a desperate look. “I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth. You can love the cause but the cause can’t love you. Do bear that in mind?” 

Enjolras held out an open hand. “Okay,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I know.” 

Grantaire only looked at the offer for a moment, a cold expression still shadowing his face. Whether is was the light glinting off Enjolras’ godlike features, the eagerness in his eyes, or the vulnerably displayed palm hanging in the evening air, not even Grantaire knew. But his look softened, a soft smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and he graced his palm with the tips of his fingers before lacing them together. Their open hands pressed together, fingers entwined to a knot, completing each other in the shroud of flame-lit night. 


	4. Chapter 4

The night of the revolution was black and never ending. The barricade blocked the street outside their beloved Café and the students lay side by side in the chilled Parisian night air, muskets by their side and pistols in their hands. The rain-dampened cobblestones beneath them soaked their waistcoats and brought prickling shivers up their spines. Many of the boys unconsciously pressed together for warmth, with their heads on shoulders or their knees sandwiched together, sleeping side by side with the end on the dawning horizon. 

Two swaths of red and green lay beside one another. The crimson coat spread beneath both of them, the green waistcoat a shade darker from the rain. Grantaire was shaking violently. His head and one hand rested on Enjolras’ chest as they both propped against a overturned table. Enjolras lay on his back with one arm around Grantaire, feeling his tremors as he quivered under the volley of raindrops. 

“I can try and find a blanket,” Enjolras offered. “A tablecloth, or an extra coat.” 

Grantaire shook his head in the limited space. “It’s not the cold,” he uttered through chattering teeth. 

“Please, you’re soaked through. Let me get you something.” 

Grantaire shook his head again. “It’s not the cold.” He repeated, a strange poingance coming through his certainty. “It’s that I haven’t had anything to drink tonight.”

A solemnity honeyed Enjolras’ voice, though Grantaire couldn’t see his expression when he said, “I see.” 

“You said we were the only barricade left.” 

Enjolras almost smiled, like the gravity of the situation only made this moment sweeter. “Yes,” he sighed thoughtfully. “You’d think that would be a reason to drink.” 

Grantaire tipped his chin up and looked to Enjolras with wide, imploring eyes. His voice hushed to just above a whisper. “Do you think we’re going to make it?” 

Enjolras returned his gaze and smiled, close-lipped and confidently. “Well, we’re strong boys, aren’t we?” 

“I-- well. I’ll spare you the ‘end of the world’ speech.”

“No,” Enjolras whispered. “I want to hear it.” 

A reverent moment passed, the pattering of the rain on the sidewalk beating in time to their synced breaths. “I’ve never done anything impactful my whole life,” he started finally, placing each word carefully together. “I’ve lived a, a numb life. I’ve hardly remembered a moment of it. So just this once, just for tonight, I don’t want the world to feel cloudy.” He took a calming inhale through his nose, breathing in their mingled scents. “I want the clarity, even if it hurts.” 

Enjolras rubbed his shoulder sweetly and tangled his fingers in the spiralling damp ringlets. “That’s brave of you,” he commended, trying to rub the tremors away with each soothing grace of his hand. 

“Thank you,” he mouthed. The rain pattered on. “And Enjolras?” 

“Yes?” 

“You have the revolution in you. Anyone can see that.”

He heard Enjolras’s heartbeat quicken. “Thank you, Grantaire.” 

A tensity scratched at his whisper when he spoke again, disrupted by the shaking of his  voice. “I don’t have the same skills and talents as you. When the army confronts us, and if we get separated, well…” his voice died in his throat and he closed his eyes to shut out the image in his head. “I care for you deeply and if I don’t have what it takes to make it out alive, then, just know that I-- well, I--”

“Hey. It’s okay.” Enjolras turned his face and kissed his forehead. “I love you, too.” He adjusted his hold to try and provide more warmth or more shelter from the spitting sky. “Try and rest up. You know I’m here. Everything is exactly where it needs to be.” 

The heavier their sleep set on, the colder the night seemed. Grantaire still trembling against Enjolras, ear pressed to his chest. He heard the steady slowing thumps of his heart as he drifted into sleep, and matched his breathing to the somnolent, soporific rhythm until the tremors finally ceased. 

//

He awoke at various points throughout the night. Sometimes feverish, sometimes parched, dizzy, freezing, reeling. He clung to Enjolras like an unstable house clinging to its cornerstone. Each new ailment walloping him in waves and building with invisible force. The longer he held them off, the more unbearable they became, until the spectrum of symptoms plagued him so he was forced to leave his side and vomit into the gutter behind the Café. “Oh, god,” he wheezed to himself and punctuated a deft and final spit onto the sidewalk. “Oh, god, spare me. I can’t do it anymore.” 

He staggered into the Café and pulled the first bottles that he found. The sickly haze slowly faded and a muddy euphoria took its place. His intoxication built steadily, the pain resolving itself to sorrow. One candid night was all it took. He looked beyond the door to the covered area where the barricade boys slept in varying levels of uneasy slumber, Enjolras amongst them. Grantaire pulled from the bottle and sighed the dry flavor between his teeth. “He makes me want to be a better man,” he said wistfully to himself. A moment passed and his breathing abated so he could feel his nervous heart pounding in his chest. “He makes me want to be the man I wish I was,” he revised, and drank to it. He drummed his fingers on the table. His heart pumped more anesthetic to his brain. The dark sky lightened to a melancholy blue. His final statement fell in a broken whisper. “He makes me want to be the man I’ll never be.” The sun had just begun to rise when his stupor peaked and his head hit the table, unconscious. 

It was a sleep so thick and inky black that not the firing of rifles, nor the boom of cannons, nor the agonized screams of friend and foe alike could stir him. As the soldiers filed into the Café with strategic uniformity, Grantaire slept like one of the dead, slumped over the table, surrounded by the killed and the wounded. The soldiers swept right by him, clearing corners and opening fire and bayonetting any man in civilian clothes. The heat of battle evoked no response, from the first shots to the final uttered groans of defeat. 

Only silence stirs the drunk. Only softly creaking floor boards and muffled voices from above were quiet enough to permeate through his drunken slumber. His brow furrowed and he inhaled sharply through his nose before he found the strength to sit up. Neither the effects of drinking nor of withdrawal plagued him as he staggered over bodies and followed the voices up the stairs. 

The sight sobered him instantly. A wall of soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder, their weapons raised in threat but yet to be aimed. Enjolras stood by the wall, glowing in the early morning sun coming in through the window. His, chin up, chest puffed, musket cast to the ground, then he gave his final order: “Shoot me!” 

One of the soldiers lowered his weapon. “My God,” he whispered to himself. “How could I?” The rest took aim. 

“Long live the revolution!” Grantaire exclaimed as he weaved through the soldiers and took a place beside Enjolras. “Long live the republic! I am one of them.” He glanced at Enjolras and adjusted his posture to the same proud, upright stance. 

Enjolras looked at Grantaire with a poignant admiration softening his features. He took his hand and held their interlocked fingers above their head and made certain and fierce eye contact with each soldier and their weapons. His low voice carried only to Grantaire in the soldiers’ stunned and hesitant silence as they guiltily pulled back their hammers.  “You don’t have to die with me, you know.” he said. “You could escape. Leave to England. Start over.” 

“I die with you,” Grantaire returned, gripping his hand a little tighter. “Or I die without you. I’d rather be killed than only half a man. 

Enjolras smiled a beauty unfit for the world. Grantaire closed his eyes, letting that image be the only thing to fill his mind’s eye. He didn’t see the soldier’s fingers tighten on their triggers, or the lurch of their weapons when the volley rang out. A white pain hurt for an instant. Warmth spread from his body, then through it. The darkest night shrouded them in the pink light of dawn. Their knotted hands enclosed into one fist, paling as the wet crimson coat spread beneath them.  


	5. Chapter 5

Dying in the memory was like dying in a dream except the bleariness in his eyes was not from sleep. He remembered waking in the pool of their mingled blood, kissing the cold lips of his love, then spilling out into the street where kind women cleaned him up along with the stains on the cobblestones. The primitive and unnatural sight of blood copiously spilled filling his vision again.

“Have you ever gone back?” Marius asked. 

Grantaire shook his head absently. “I can never go back,” he croaked, and poured himself another glass of wine.  

“Please, Grantaire. Take a water,” Marius insisted. “What do you gain by drinking so much?”

“Nothing,” Grantaire scoffed. “But I lose the memories that have made me so miserable since I left.” 

“You look plenty miserable now.” 

“Only I won’t remember it,” he slurred. “That’s the difference.” 

A long silence passed. “I’m staying with one of my relatives in Kent until I go back to France next week,” Marius offered. “If ever you should need anything, a free meal or just someone who understands… ” 

Grantaire turned to him and smiled a closed, tight-lipped smile with narrow surveying eyes. “I’ve made it this far, Marius,” he said with deceptive coldness.“God above allowed for this, and that’s the hardest part.” His drunken eyes bleared and spilled down the roses that bloomed on his cheeks, but his expression remained placid. “He’s not letting me go easily. Thank you, I appreciate it, but I think I just need…” A train whistle sounded from a few blocks down. He stared through Marius a moment, took another drink of wine, and lost his thought. 

“Oh, my train,” Marius sucked his teeth and looked to the door, then checked his watch. “Speaking of Kent— Hey, why don’t you meet us for dinner?”

“That’s kind of you, Marius, but someone like me—“ 

He pulled a notebook from his waistcoat and scribbled an address rushedly down. “It’s not far, and it’s just an evening. You can stay if you like, or go back to the city afterward,” he concluded amicably. He stood from his seat and gave Grantaire’s shoulder a squeeze. “Our brotherhood comes before my title. The offer stands.” 

Grantaire’s head bobbed in solemn understanding. “Thank you, Marius.” 

Marius lingered a moment, then turned and walked toward the door. Grantaire watched his blue coat turn down the street, out of sight, and mindlessly smeared the still wet ink to illegibility. He shut his eyes with finality, then a poignant smile shone golden in the sunlight of memory and he drew the bottle impulsively to his lips. Red like horror, sweet like bygone kisses, the dry wine washed his palette and his mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, to TWOW,   
> Sorry this fic took literal eons to start. I adored the prompt of Hozier's Cherry Wine as a prompt and I hope you enjoyed the smatterings of deliberate imagery that I placed throughout these chapters. Hopefully soon we can plan our next challenge. I'm so pleased that we did this and I adore reading your writing. "Dawn" was beautiful and I hope you find the quality of this fic to match yours (though personally I think yours is better!) I can't wait to see what new stories we share next.   
> Cheers, -C


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